Blankie - a Soap Opera

Part I: In which a blankie is lost and a childhood is at stake

On Friday you left Blankie at school.

It was a perfect storm: Daddy usually picks you up and ensures Blankie's presence, but he is out of town, so a neighbor and babysitter stepped in. Your teacher usually puts Blankie in your backpack, but a new teacher was covering your class that afternoon. Blankie got left behind.

We didn't know until bedtime. I looked in your backpack and he wasn't there. I was stunned. In two years we have never lost Blankie. There is never a good time to lose Blankie, but a night when your father is out of town seemed especially bad.

I gave you a train to sleep with (Whiff) and told you that Blankie was in the washer getting all clean. Washing Blankie is traumatic, but it's familiar trauma, and he's come out alright in the past, so you eventually accepted this. I told you that when he was all clean I'd sneak into your room and put him on your chest. I lied to you. I needed to buy myself some time. I had broken out in a cold sweat and was operating in a state of mild panic. Once you fell asleep maybe I'd calm down and figure something out.

You did fall asleep. You are such a brave little boy. I called and e-mailed the school. I called my parents and friends for ideas on how to cope. I called Sarah, because I think it was her mom who gave you Blankie, and I was hoping that she remembered where she bought it or what it was called. I was hoping it wasn't hand made.

We never put a lot of thought into the blankie situation. When you were 5 months old we decided it would be good if you were attached to something that was not us, something we could put in your crib that would comfort you and help with the sleep training we had decided to try. We looked through our pile of blankets and settled on Blankie because he was the smallest, and had short satin pieces of ribbon sticking out around the edges that you liked to worry between your fingers, like an old woman with her rosary. We walked around with Blankie under our shirts, so it would smell like some awful combination of us. You were immediately hooked. You have not slept without it for over two years. Until last night.

Three hours after I put you to bed you woke up screaming. You were so upset you couldn't talk. Not that you needed to, I knew what you wanted. I tried giving you "Mommy's blanket," a satin night shirt similar in texture to the ribbons on Blankie. You were so upset to be offered a replacement that you cried harder, and in retrospect it's probably best you didn't take to that saucy little negligee, which would have been awkward to explain. I offered you a number of alternatives, and each seemed to distress you more than the last. Then I finally told you the truth: Blankie was safe at Chai Tots, and we couldn't get him until tomorrow. This news was met with violent racking sobs. At this point I was crying too, because I felt so terrible and helpless. And I had no idea what I'd do in the morning, when you'd demand to go to Chai Tots and retrieve Blankie. I couldn't bring myself to tell the full truth, that you wouldn't be reunited with Blankie until Monday, two long days and two sleepless nights away. An unfathomably long time. We would never make it.

After an hour of crying you settled down, and we lay in your bed together. You took to rubbing my fingers in the same way you rub Blankie's ribbons. In a way we had come full circle. Blankie had been meant to comfort you in my absence, and now it was I who comforted you in Blankie's absence. When you were finally asleep I slipped away to spend an hour researching how to pick locks. I told myself this was a reasonable thing to do, a skill I had always meant to acquire.

Other than lock picking, here is what I learned from the Internet: your Blankie is called a Taggie. Taggies are sold in half a dozen stores in Manhattan. So there was hope of a replacement, provided we survived the night. I couldn't find the specific pattern, but I hoped that the same shape and textures would be enough to get us through the weekend.

I went on Babycenter for advice on how to explain this all to you. The discussion boards were full of similar sob stories, which was initially comforting. But so many suggestions read along the lines of "talk to him about being a big boy and not needing a Blankie anymore." Which was heartbreaking advice. You don't need to be that big of a boy, not yet. Because of my carelessness, would you be forced to grow up and face the harsh realities of life this weekend? Even more terrifying was the story I imagined these parents weren't telling: "my son eventually recovered, but has not formed a strong bond with anything else ever since."

How could I stand by while you were cruelly pushed out of childhood? What if you would never be able to feel attached to anything or anyone else ever again? It's enough to make any parent consider breaking and entering.

On a side note, I would like to say, to all those parents who posted stories about how they bought or hand sewed ten identical baby blankies to guard against this kind of crisis, or cut an existing blankie in half or thirds so their children would never have to experience such heart wrenching loss, YOU PEOPLE ARE NOT HELPING. In fact, you are kicking us lesser parents while we are down. Yes, this is a great idea, but unless you have a time machine for rent just stop it with these here's-what-you-should-have-done posts. The rest of us are in a crisis here. We don't care about the past or the future. All our energy is focused on surviving right now.

Thus ends Part I. Will Roan be forced to become a man too soon? Will his mother be arrested for breaking into a nice Jewish preschool? How many stores in Manhattan really have Taggies in stock? Stay tuned for Part II.

Pretty in Pink

A few weeks ago Francie came to visit with her daughter Bianca. Francie was my college roommate freshman year. We were randomly paired together to share the smallest room available at Fontainebleau, off campus housing in Isla Vista. I remember getting her name in the mail, with her phone number. Her name was Francesca and I immediately pictured a girly girl who wore pink without irony and slept in a bed with lots of ruffles and those Victorian cylindrical pillows. Let it be a testament to my lack of girlyness that I still don't know what those pillows are called.

I couldn't bring myself to phone her.

We met on move-in day, and she was wearing enormous Janco jeans, a wallet chain and a Rage Against the Machine T-shirt. I was so relieved. Here was someone I could relate to. She was even on board with my plan to decorate our room with palm fronds and vines. I didn't object to her purple xmas lights and gumball machine. She was into Anime and wanted to be a scientist. We got along fabulously.

Now she has a daughter who is everything I was afraid Francesca would be when I read her name on that card. She only wears pink. She only eats pink food off pink plates, with a pink spoon. She walked into our apartment in a pink tutu. Just look at the photos. There is nothing this girl is wearing that is not pink.

Despite this, she is amazing - so much fun to be around. Roan and Bianca really got along. I guess it's not all that hard for kids to connect at that age, but it was still gratifying to see them playing nicely together, holding hands, and looking around for each other at the playground. They are friends. And maybe, just maybe, after all these years, I might revise my opinion of things like "pink" and "ruffles."

In any case, Bianca may end up with a unexpected birthday present from her Aunty Roo. A cylinder pillow, pink, with ruffles galore.

Figure of Speech

The scene: Roan has been playing in the sandbox. His hands are covered with sticky sand, and he seems distressed.

Me: Want me to wipe off your hands?

Roan: No, I want to keep them on.

TTD - Work

It was easy to come up with a destination this week. On Monday night, I left my iPad at the office. I still had three more novels to read in advance of the London Book Fair. They are all on the iPad. We had to get it.

You were completely on board with this plan. You often watch YouTube videos of trains on the iPad while I'm getting dressed, and you had noticed it was missing from our morning routine.

Daddy rode with us all the way to Union Square and you sat on his lap the whole way. You are in a Daddy phase. You also are developing one of the strongest Brooklyn accents I've ever heard. You say things like "look at the little boirdie," like some Long Island grandmother. In typical fashion, I think this is hilarious, and Jay is worried.

I work on 27th Street, in the middle of the wholesale district, or what is also known in the publishing industry as the Agency Ghetto. Rents are cheap here. 28th Street is full of plants and flowers. 6th Ave is lined with jewelry, hand bags, and wigs. 27th Street has mostly toys, with assorted luggage and socks. If you need to pick up a dozen rubber frogs and a dozen pair of feather earrings on your lunch break, 27th St. is the place to be. (Full disclosure: these are things that I actually purchased on Monday, on my lunch break).

Outside my building I explained that this is where I go when you go to Chai Tots, and introduced you to the super and the doorman. We rode the elevator to the 8th floor. You weren't too impressed with my office. After a short period of fascination with my Rolodex, you climbed on the couch and asked where the iPad was. You played games while I printed out copies of our rights list.

Jay and I both love books, and I was hoping you'd have a stronger response to being in a space that was overstuffed with them. To be fair, none of us do children's, and our offices are mostly stacked with science-fiction and fantasy novels, some with truly unfortunate covers. Roan, you should know that I really like my job. I'm proud of the books I sell and the authors I work with. Some days it is really hard to drop you off at preschool, and it sucks getting home after you've gone to sleep, but on most days the work makes me happy. It's a different kind of happy than how you make me feel, but it's a kind of happy that I need.

You were less than charming for my coworkers, who tried their best to engage you with cars and talk of trains. You opted to throw a long-winded and half-hearted temper tantrum on the floor. We had what we came for. You were ready to go back on the train.

Walking back to the train you saw a waterfall. There was a barrier of small rocks to absorb any splashes, and you put three of them in the pocket of your poncho. Putting things in your pocket is a new thing. You don't entirely trust it. You are afraid they will fall out, or get lost or perhaps teleported to another dimension, never to come back out of your pocket again.

We got on the train earlier than we usual, but even so you asked for lunch. You've gotten into the habit of opening your mouth wide like a baby bird and me spooning in food as we rush through the tunnels. This week I brought risotto. You ate a ton of it until I gave you a bite that was too mushroom heavy, and you spit it out and flopped dramatically on the bench. "Just rice!" you wailed, over and over, your face streaming tears and mucus. Even once you calmed down you kept repeating it, "just rice, Mommy, just rice" like a wronged man demanding justice.

It was a fitting week for an office visit, as I'm about to leave on my longest business trip. I will be away from you for a full week. For the first time since we started these ridiculous train trips we will have to skip a week. Which might be why I let you talk me into a train ride on Thursday. I took you to Chai Tots for school pictures, and the F/G station was impossible to miss. You made a run for it, and since we didn't have much else on the agenda, we hopped on a Coney Island bound F. After the first stop it goes above ground, and you stood on the bench and stared out at the tracks. When other trains passed, so clear in the daylight, you bounced up and down in excitement.

We rode near to the end of the line, then caught a Manhattan bound train back. We didn't get off the train to go anywhere, which confirmed something I'd always suspected: the destination is irrelevant. Maybe I've been over doing it, trying too hard with this crazy idea that we take the train somewhere. All we need is the train, preferably an elevated line.

It wasn't anywhere near lunch time, but on the way home, like one of Pavlov's dogs, you asked for lunch. Roan, 10 years from now, you might wonder why you have this inexplicable craving for a rice dish every time you board a train.

If nothing else, this post will put that mystery to bed.

TTD - The Honeymoon is Over

Roan, I have a confession to make. I am getting sick of the train.

Maybe because this week was our 10th TTD. 10 train days, and we are still wearing all our winter gear. 10 train days, and you are showing no signs of walking up the hill yourself, so I continue to wear the ergo over all my winter gear. Lets just say it's not the most slimming combination.

We went to the Transit Museum again, which is what we did on our very first train day. Appropriately, you brought the subway car with us.

We got on the R train. I must have been broadcasting my foul mood because a few stops in this guy came over and got right in my face. "What you looking at?" he said. "You want me to hit you in your face?"

I've never been great with comebacks. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to say, "son, if you go out in public, you run the risk of getting looked at." Instead I started laughing. I know he meant the question as a threat, but it came out sounding earnest, almost accommodating, like if I said yes we would then discuss the particulars of where on my face I'd like to be hit. He said, "you think I'm playing?" and then we engaged in a staring contest. I took a long look at him. He looked mad and he looked tired. He was wearing a hoodie and sweat pants. Sadly, I am used to being bullied by a boy in pajamas. I said, very slowly, "I'm not looking at you," and broke eye contact. He turned away. "Don't look at that guy," I told you, because naturally you were now staring. The subway slowed to a stop and he got off.

You remembered the Transit Museum, and were very excited to go in. You remembered the pretend crate of dynamite and what I told you about the pulley cart, that it couldn't go because there wasn't enough track, and you told that story right back to me. You remembered right where the bus was. It's a real bus, with all the shifters and millions of buttons and switches.

And of course you remembered the subway cars. We went further underground to see them. The end of the platform (where you remembered "James" is) was blocked off. You stood at the barrier calling for Thomas and James. I knew you wouldn't leave without a fight or a bribe, so I took a deep breath and led you to the gift shop. I decided to buy you one train. Because I felt guilty for being so sick of them. I'm sick of formally greeting them, feeding them breakfast, rescuing them from the soccer net, finding them when they get lost, lining them up just so, gasping when they take plunges off the table, telling stories about them, reading books about them, and drawing pictures of them wearing costumes. I am dreading Halloween, when I will have to make costumes for not only you but all your trains. Percy wants to be a pig. Thomas wants to be an Indian. Gordon wants to be a knight. Henry, bless his heart, doesn't want to dress up.

I also felt guilty for letting the subway confrontation get to me. In such a dense city, we live our lives out in the open, in public spaces. Our actions and attitude impact so many. It is so important here to be kind. Nevertheless, I am used to getting bumped, muttered at, pushed, and occasionally cursed. I try not to take it too much to heart. But it wears on me. Sometimes I get tired of doing so much of my parenting in the public eye. I get tired of being judged. I want to shield you from this kind of disenchantment, for as long as I can. Some days I feel it building in me, like a shadow that gets longer and longer at the end of the day.

Some days it's enough to make me want to just stay home. Except that our home has been overrun with trains.

In the gift shop there were rows of trains lined up neatly in boxes, pull back steam engines that made a lot of train noises. You pushed the buttons on all of them, and soon the whole box was shaking with whistles and huffs. You took a red one out to play with while I skimmed through some books. When it was time to leave I offered to buy the red steam engine for you.

"No," you said, "I want to play with him here."

"We have to go home on the train now" I said, "so let's take him home. You can bring one train home."

"No," you said, and put him carefully back in the box. You grabbed my hand and led me out of the store. You asked for your subway car back.

You wanted to leave those trains as they were, so you could come back, and experience the magic all over again. I know this because you told me so, in not so many words. If you can have this much fun in a gift shop, and then ask me for a toy you already own, I guess this city hasn't turned you into a cynic quite yet.